


saturday mornings

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 19:00:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14879409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: Saturday mornings are gentle. They are Stiles, exhausted and soft in his bed, and warm cups of tea, lazy kisses and hours of reading and listening to Stiles chatter about his week.





	saturday mornings

There is a cup of tea on the bedside table, next to a jar of thick cream, and as he watches Stiles, sleeping in his bed, he knows that both will be needed. 

His back is red welts and bruises, and while part of him is viciously happy to see him marked so well, the wolf in him is whining in distress. 

Friday nights are always hard. Peter discovered Stiles’ kink for pain play before they even got together, watched the way the boy threw himself into danger, watched as he poked and pressed at Derek until the Alpha snapped back, shoved him hard into the wall, hands tight and bruising against his skin. He saw the way Stiles’ eyes dilated and fluttered, his scent going rich with arousal. 

It was worrisome and intoxicating--worrisome because the boy had no sense, so self-preservation. Intoxicating because Stiles was beautiful when he was panting in fear, twisting in pain, utterly pliant in submission. 

Fridays, then, were for scenes. Friday, belonged to Peter--not the pack, not the Sheriff, not  _ Scott _ or whatever monster that was trying to kill them this month. 

Friday, Peter came home early and kissed Stiles, naked and on his knees, patient and eager. 

Friday, Peter played. He spoiled and teased, dragged the night out with gentle touches and hand feeding and a languorous bath, before he took Stiles to bed, covered every bruise left on his pale skin with his own, worked him over with cane and paddle and crop. 

Sometimes, he was impatient, didn’t indulge in the time to spoil, reaching out to  _ take  _ as soon as he entered his apartment, fucking Stiles wet open mouth rough and fast before dragging him to bed and fucking him with a brutailty that had Stiles screaming, fighting not to come as Peter takes everything he wants, his hands bruising and tight, claws raising bright red lines. Later, Stiles will trace them, heavy lidded and shuddering, achingly hard while Peter sucks him off, slow and almost apologetic. 

Friday nights are all hard demands, power play and bright bright pain, pleasure splashed like blood, had fought and triumphantly spilled. 

But Saturday mornings. 

Saturday mornings are gentle. They are Stiles, exhausted and soft in his bed, and warm cups of tea, lazy kisses and hours of reading and listening to Stiles chatter about his week. It was just as sacrosanct as Friday, hours of time when the pack won’t disturb them, until they stroll into Derek’s loft for pack night, Stiles loose and happy under Peter’s arm stringing an affectionate smile across his nephews face. 

Saturday mornings are quiet, and he sighs, now, watching his mate sleeping in his bed, before he shifts, runs a finger over the bright red marks, black veins leeching away the residual pain. Not all of it. Stiles will bitch for hours, if Peter takes all of it. 

He presses against the plug nestled in Stiles, and is rewarded with a sleepy whine, before Peter gently tugs it free. The scent of  _ them _ , of Stiles and sex and Peter’s come, fills the air and he slides his fingers deep, feeling that intoxicating heat and the claim he left last night. 

He shifts up on the bed, covers Stiles careful and presses a kiss to the nape of his neck as he slowly fills his sleeping mate. 

He fucks him slowly, almost lazily, pleasure a hazy point that he’s in no hurry to reach, basking in the breathy noises Stiles is making, the way he shifts in his sleep, pressing back into Peter. He revels in the rich scent of sex, Stiles precome and sweat, and the dirty squelching noise, the slap of skin as he slowly fucks him. 

Stiles moans, sleepily, murmurs, “Peter?” 

And it’s that--his voice warm and trusting, deep and sleep rough, the way only Peter gets to hear, shaping his name like it’s all that matters to Stiles--that tips him over the edge. He bites down on the nape of Stiles’ neck as he comes, and the boy convulses, shuddering as comes with a low noise. 

They lay like that for a long time, before Stiles wiggles and says, happily, “I like Saturday mornings.” 

He sounds sated and content and it makes Peter, man and wolf both, preen in pleasure and pride. He kisses the indention of his teeth as he slips out of boy and Stiles whines, petulant, that shifts into a high shriek he buries in his pillow as Peter licks over his puffy hole, licks into him. 

He moans, and Peter smiles. 

It’s still early and all of the morning stretches before them. 


End file.
